Thursday 31 January 2008

Any pay-scale comparison with the private sector would have given the Taoiseach a salary of at least €600,000, Bertie Ahern told the Dáil yesterday.... : : : :

... Mr Ahern said any comparison with even the "lowest quartile" of the private sector "would have put my salary at €600,000 - not that I needed that, I can tell you. They didn't do that, and I wouldn't have taken it."....

Well of course he doesn't fucking NEED it - he's been getting money from the world and his mother (see what I did there). He's been the lucky recipient of so much money he can't remember who most of it came from, the currency involved or which particular super market's plactic bag it was delivered in.

Not only is he out-crookeding the crooked man who walked a crooked mile, he's fucking bragging about it too. He may as well have said "€600,000? Pah! I have more dan dat in me sock drawer wot I got from developers and dat".

He has received money from people who are his friends, people who aren't his friends, people who didn't eat dinners, people who ate dinners, people who bought houses (or intended to buy houses or rented houses or once saw a house or something), people who may never have existed and a homeless man who felt sorry for him because poverty-stricken Bertie doesn't have the luxury of "prolonged holidays and yachts and homes and everything else" (Bertie Ahern: 13/Nov/2007).

As if that wasn't enough, yesterday he received an email informing him that he had won €2.5 million in the Spanish lottery - even though he has never bought a ticket. (I know, because I sent the email) All he has to do is provide his bank account details and pay a small administration fee. (Thanks be to jaysus he didn't win it in the 90's when he had no bank account eh? That would have been unfortunate).

Of course if he were a private sector employee he would be long gone by now. In the private sector you can't get away with that kind of shit. "Forgot your wifes birthday did you - I'll be sorry to see you go".

Wednesday 30 January 2008

Many songs lyrics pose one or more questions. Although some also provide answers, it seems that this is not so in the majority of cases. While listening to one such song yesterday evening I thought somebody should at least have a stab at the answers.

The question is hidden as white text on a white background -it won't be visible unless you select it.Q: Why do birds suddenly appear every time you are near?No idea, it could be something to do with this bread hat I'm wearing.

Q: Wearing a face that she keeps in a jar by the door. Who is it for?Some kind of face collector?Q: War... Huh!... Yeah! What is it good for?Well, it could come in handy for defending ourselves against potential aggressors.

Q: Do you, do you, do you want to dance?Generally I quite like dancing actually.... but not with stuttering weirdos!Q: How much is that doggy in the window?He's a little to lively for our children so he's free to a good home.

Q:Do You Remember the First Time?Vaguely, it went a little something like this. "I'm having sex... I'm having sex... I'm hav.... I've had sex"

Q: Who Is He (And What Is He to You)? An ex boyfriend - probably best that you don't ask anymore questions. You really don't want to know.

Q: Will you still love me tomorrow?Of course I will - and more than today too if you do that thing I like.

Tuesday 29 January 2008

The child's father, Ryan Whitman, used the weapon on his son in order to "toughen him up". Apparently he harbours visions of his son becoming the greatest cage fighter the world has ever known. A sodding cage fighter? How anybody can look at a toddler and see anything other than a wholesome, happy innocence is beyond me.

I have no children but I have seen how every new parent is convinced their offspring is cuter, more intelligent and more advanced than every other new born in the maternity ward. The fact that newborns do little other than sleep, poop, cry and feed doesn't seem to matter. They see in their child the untapped potential to become an unstoppable, world changing force of nature.

They have the noblest of intentions - they will be a glamour-model-roasting premiership footballer, a rock star, a Formula 1 driver, a human rights lawyer, a nobel or pullitzer prize winner, a world leader or a UN Ambassador. I really can't fathom how this guy looked at his son and thought "You're destined for greatness my son. Yes you are. You will knock seven shades of shite out of other people in front of numb-skull hicks for money".

The real concern here is the risk that after 4 years the guy will have served his sentence. Rehabilitated in the eyes of the law and still the boy's biological father, he may, unless social services step in, be free to resume his role in shaping his son's personality and his future.

Personally, I hope the child grows up to be the most effeminate man the world has ever known. That he becomes a standard bearer for the worldwide homosexual community. I hope he is camper then a great big line of pink fluffy tents - so camp he makes Julian Clary feel positively masculine.

Why?

I'd imagine that, being such a neanderthal, it is the worst outcome his father could possibly imagine.

Monday 28 January 2008

Friday night saw my first gig of 2008 and, given that the lasttwo were nothing to write home about, I was more than a little apprehensive about it.

I have always been amused by the death centric nature of references used by comedians to describe gigs - "I died" is bad but "I killed" or "I burried it" is good". I tend to shy away from such phrases preferring to say "Ah it was OK" if it went badly or "Ah it was OK" if it went well. On Friday I went on 3rd of about 6... and proceeded to rip the place apart.

The delivery was animated and energetic, the timing, perfect. There were a group of English girls sitting just in front of the stage who seemed more interested in chatting amongst themselves than in what was going on. They had caused the first few acts some trouble but I managed to engage them early on, ad lib a few quick gags and hold their attention for the rest of the set. After that, it was a case of landing gag after gag, punchline after punchline and ad lib after ad lib.

My biggest problem was waiting for the laughter to die down sufficiently so I could start the next segment. Shy by nature, it can be tough enough to stand up in front of a room full of strangers when I have the task of delivering material to occupy my mind. Doing so while simply standing, waiting for people to stop laughing makes me feel incredibly self conscious and embarassed. Something of an oxymoron for a comedian I am sure.

So with my faith in the old material restored, I still need to write some new stuff.

Thursday 24 January 2008

So Damien posted about the charming people from Westboro Baptist Church (WBC) and their intention to protest at the Funeral of Heath Ledger.

He provided a list of "celebrity" names and wondered what reasons they (WBC) might have for protesting at their respective funerals.

So here are my best guesses...

Mother TheresaAlthough born in Albania, did most of her work in India.Which is where Gandhi was from.Who was played in the eponymous 1982, Academy Award winning biopic by Ben KingsleyWho divorced his German wife, Alexandra Christmann, in 2005Which God isn't overly fond of divorce.Protest!

Pope John Paul IIAlthough ultra conservative on religious matters he issued a number of apologies for....

The treatment Galileo received at the hands of the Church when he suggested that the sun might be the centre of our solar system (as opposed to the earth). This apology was issued in 1992 - almost 400 years after Galileo initially made the suggestion and many years since this was openly thought in schools around the world.

The church's involvement in the African slave trade.

The injustices committed against women, the violation of women's rights and for the historical denigration of women

Clearly, these were all A-OK in the eyes of WBC - so a-protesting the should probably have gone.

*I'm suspect I may be musically dyslexic. I can hear a rhythm - its just not necessarily the rhythm of the song.

____________

In a survey carried out to determine a list of men's names which suggest to women that the owner is particularly well endowed, my name appeared in the top 10. I have 2 points about this...

Who is so eager to learn these kinds of useless information that they commission a survey? Wouldn't the time, effort and money invested in performing surveys be better spent on usefull things? Things like "Why does Friends appear so often, on so many different stations in our TV listings?"

That my name made the top 10 proves how inaccurate these polls can be. Polls can not be trusted. Ever. (That's Polls, not Poles. They're lovely).

Wednesday 23 January 2008

If stats provided courtesy of sitemeter and feedburner are correct, this blog receives a disproportionate number of hits from people in France Google-ing the words some people call me the space cowboy.

Although the title of the post which generates the hit matches their search term exactly, the post itself has little to do with space or indeed cowboys. The post, about stand up comedy, was so titled because "some people call me the space cowboy" are the first seven words of The Steve Miller Band song 'The Joker'. In hindsight, perhaps it was a little too obscure.

Although it is probably nothing more than people with a desire to learn the lyrics to one of the finest songs from the 70's, I fear it is self-conscious teenagers turning to the Internet in search of some anonymous Agony-Aunt/Uncle who can guide them through the trauma of a strange new insult.

My advice: just call your tormentor a "fat pompatus".

Update: Of course, a similar search will now return 2 links to this blog, neither of which are actually about The Steve Miller Band or the song 'The Joker'. Perhaps I should just post the lyrics to help these people out?

Tuesday 22 January 2008

Grandad Ambassador was born in New York in 1915. He moved to Dublin with his brothers, sisters and mother when he was about 7. His father remained in New York, working on the building sites until he could save enough money to make the journey across the Atlantic and join his family.

Unfortunately he never made it to Dublin -shortly after they left he fell ill and, after what appears to have been a long and ultimately fruitless fight to regain his health, he passed away. During this time he continued working and regularly wrote letters to his wife and children.

We have those letters at home. Grandad Ambassador, an obsessively neat and tidy man by nature, had lovingly kept them in a beautiful mahogany box with all his most treasured possessions (including a lock of his mother's hair). Although 86 years old, they are more or less in perfect condition - the paper has become brittle over time and the ink is beginning to fade but there is not a dog ear in sight. The only creases are those where my great grandfather folded the paper before putting it in the envelope. It quickly becomes apparent when you read the letters why Grandad Ambassador treasured them so. Apart from being well written and articulate, they tell a genuinely sweet love story which pours unashamedly from the pages.

From reading the letters, we think he knew his time on earth was drawing to a close as he wrote the last few. Stoically, he never mentioned his poor health, he continued to work and to sent money home. The levels of love and affection evident in them were perhaps, with the benefit of hindsight, those of somebody resigned to never seeing his family again.

There are also a number of letters, sent after his passing, from one of his work colleagues to my great-grandmother. They tell of my great grandfather's last few days, how he passed on peacefully in his sleep, how his colleagues had organised the funeral details and held a whip around to cover the cost of the funeral expenses. (There was some money left over, which they sent to my great grandmother - but not before seeking legal advice as to the most tax-efficient way for her to receive it). I have no doubt that these letters were a tremendous source of comfort and consolation to her - to know her husband was looked after during his final days, that he was afforded a fine burial and that he had such good, close friends. (Why would she have kept them so long otherwise?)

In this era of rapid advancement and instant communication, the art of letter writing is dying and that is an enormous shame. Perhaps it is already dead. How will my great grandchildren know about my life? Will my text messages and emails to the close personal friend survive 86 years? Will they survive 1 year?

How can we open a window to our world so future generations will have some idea what life (and in particular our life) was like in 2008? Books, encyclopedias and the Internet will record events of major historical importance but how will individual tales of life, hardship, happiness and love survive?

Do we risk becoming the first generation in history to leave no written record of our existence?

I am aware there is a certain irony in posting this onto a blog where thousands of people could potentially read it (in reality 4 is more likely).

Monday 21 January 2008

The likelihood of anybody performing the old "sawing an ambassador in half" trick at my funeral diminished slightly today. Some of the wire barriers along the Naas road are being replaced with normal steel barriers - and not before time either!

Naturally a collision with a regular barrier could have serious consequences but even the worst case scenario must be preferable to the tragic fate of this New Zealand biker.

I could go on about the number of countries that have outlawed these barriers or EU concerns about their use but I don't want to make a big hairy deal out of it.

This is good news though. Very good news.

I still can't help thinking that there is something to be said for the idea of a magician and his assistant, dressed in spangled Lycra costumes, theatrically pulling both halves of my coffin apart and spinning them around before an open-mouthed cortege of mourners.

Friday 18 January 2008

I feel it is only fair to provide an antidote to those still humming, singing, whistling or screeching 'Islands In The Stream'. So, pick a song you like, preferably one with a decent guitar riff, and hum that for a bit until it dethrones the offending ditty. (Of course this has its own, obvious, drawbacks).

May I suggest this - although you are of course free to select any tune you wish.

Finally, I would like to issue a full and frank apology for any distress I may have caused...

If I could turn back timeIf I could find a wayI'd take back all those words that have hurt youAnd you'd stayIf I could reach the starsI'd give them all to youThen you'd love me, love meLike you used to do

Thursday 17 January 2008

T-man, was just humming something that reminded me of that classic, and not at all corny, Kenny Rogers and Dolly Parton duet "Islands In The Stream".

Now it is lodged in my head with the apparent permanence of an unwelcome party guest.

So, I have decided to send the lyrics of the chorus to the close personal friend and a few other people to see a) if i can spread the misery (Update: yes, most definitely) b) how long it takes before I get an abusive text in return. (Update: 22 minutes)

Islands in the stream, that is what we are.No one in between, how can we be wrong.Sail away with me, to another worldand we rely on each other, uh huhfrom one lover to another, uh huh

I travelled mostly at a 45o angle, such was the ferocity of the wind. Trying to maintain forward momentum when mother nature had other, far more vehement, ideas was tricky but with concentration, luck and a small element of skill I succeeded - even when she tried to blow me under the articulated truck in the next lane.

Torrential rain and spray from other traffic reduced visibility to a minimum. (Note to self: fashion a pulley based system to wipe visor clean). No problem - I flipped the visor up, bent my head a little and sacrificed facial warmth for visibility and safety. Jaw chattering and rain stinging my face like a million tiny arrows, I managed to stay rubber side down.

People who normally cycle or use public transport to negotiate the morning rush hour(s) bowed to a natural desire for comfort and took their cars and SUVs to work. Consequentially, the increased traffic volumes meant longer journey times, frustrated drivers and more unpredictable behaviour as everybody rushed to reach their respective point B's. I slowed down, tried to be more vigilant, to expect the unexpected and thankfully, avoided disaster.

I carefully navigated the small roundabout outside the office, lined the bike up with the kerb, gently bumping the front wheel up to drive the 5ft across the grass verge to the trusty lamppost, against which its secured while I earn money to keep it in petrol.

It was then that the back wheel spun wildly on the soggy wet grass, shot sideways and sent the bike plummeting towards the ground. I quickly put a foot down to halt the fall and, slipping and sliding on the grass (in what I'm sure must have been reminiscent of a scene from a Charlie Chaplin movie) , managed to restore everything to its proper upright position.

Typical - you drive 10km in hellish conditions, negotiating numerous hazards and its the last 10 feet that gets you. Still.... it left a swerving skid mark I am immensely proud of. To anybody who did not witness my less than gracious arrival, it will look like I came flying in sideways at 100 miles an hour, screeching to a halt like a modern day Jim Stark. (Yeah right!)

Wednesday 16 January 2008

So, our beloved leader Bertie got some money from some people and, for reasons unknown, this has generated a certain amount of fascination and intrigue.

For the good of the nation, he bared his soul and explained it to us through the medium of Brian Dobson. Now poor Bertie is getting on in years and his aul' memory is not what it once was. He hmmmed and hawwwed and gave it his best shot but was a little hazy on the details in some areas.

For every apparent flaw or inconsistency in his original explanation, Bertie's recollection suddenly became a little less hazy and, thankfully, he was able to revise his account (strangely, he went from have no accounts, to having many different and widely varied accounts) and shed more light on that particular area. He simply took the words of Groucho Marx - "These are my morals! If you don't like them.... Well, I have others" - changed moralsto explanationsand was good to go.

At the weekend, DeppityInda Kinny, leader of Fine Gael, suggested that Bertie's actions and explanations were making a mockery of politics in Ireland and the office of the Taoiseach in particular. He sad

It is not acceptable to have a Taoiseach who cannot declare compliance with the tax codes, who cannot explain €300,000 worth of lodgements to his accounts and who has clearly misled the public and the Dáil over his inexplicable finances

Bertie, who was off pimping the country in Africa, responded with "Liar, liar, pants on fire!"

Then, this morning on NewsTalk, Mary 'My people worked like blacks' O'Rourke said she saw Inda kissing Joan Burton behind Donaghy and Nesbits . (Actually, she accused him of treason and dishonouring the Irish flag but I thought you might find it too ludicrous).

Expect Inda to administer a particularly fierce Chinese Burn to Mary O'Rourke at lunchtime.At little break tomorrow, Brian Cowan will propose a motion that "This house believes my dad would beat Eamon Gilmore's dad in a fight".Brendan Howlin will pull Liz McManus's pigtails (yes they are on the same team but the thing is, despite his protestations, he secretly likes her).She's will most likely give him a wedgie in return (because she likes him too).

And everybody will leave Caoimhghín Ó Caoláin alone because he's way bigger than them and they're more than a little afraid of him.

Tuesday 15 January 2008

Generally speaking, I have a fairly positive disposition. I rarely get annoyed or stressed.

Occasionally though, I suffer mini bouts of depression... or maybe, bouts of mini depression. For no discernable reason, I will spend a day or two feeling withdrawn, insipid, lethargic and uninspired. Tiny things gnaw away, generating a level of annoyance hugely disproportionate to their significance. I develop an insatiable urge to "do something" - but never know exactly what that "something" might be. Today and yesterday have been overshadowed by one of these apparently inexplicable bouts.

(Before I paint myself as some sort of self-centred, drama queen, I should clarify that its not so much a Falling Down scenario as a minor internal, but very persistent, annoyance. Presumably everybody experiences similar moods from time to time and, as I eventually snap out of it, I don't fret over it or seek any kind of fawning attention.)

While ruminating on these periodic troughs in mood, I was reminded of something I read in a Spike Milligan biography some time ago.....

Milligan, a great hero of mine, suffered from bipolar disorder. In his lifetime he experienced a number of mental breakdowns and prolonged periods of depression* during which he would lock himself in his office (often for months on end) churning out reams of new material, jokes, poems and Goon show scripts. His long suffering wife who, for the duration of the episode, would not see him or speak with him, would leave meals on the floor outside his door, knock twice and walk away.

According to her, the first indication she would have that Milligan was coming out of his depression, was the delivery of a telegram to the door, sent from his office upstairs, that simply said "Put the kettle on - at once".

*While I don't for one second think my little troughs are anywhere as severe, I sometimes like to kid myself that sudden bouts of depression are obviously the hallmark of comic genius.

Friday 11 January 2008

I love music. As I explained earlier, when charged with the simplest, least time consuming task I can not (will not), begin, until I have decided what music to listen to.

Sometimes this is a good thing - given the right MP3 play list, I can ignore the rest of the office, knuckle down and churn out reams of quality code. I haven't missed a deadline all year.

On other occasions it's not such a good thing - resisting the urge to get your groove on while zooming down the N7 on a motorbike, a touch over the speed limit, listening to The Commitments' Mustang Sally is nigh on impossible. (Such was the extent of my arse wiggling, I'm sure the man behind was convinced the campest biker the world has ever known was coming on to him at 70mph).

As it happens, Mustang Sally was being played by GW who was guest presenting Ian Dempsey's breakfast show. A few moments later, having just nipped into the bus lane* , a motorbike cop motioned for me to pull in. Convinced I would soon be the proud new owner of 2 shiny penalty points I came to a stop but, luckily, it transpired he just wanted to ask a few questions about the bike.

As we were chatting, I was fervently hoping the headphone lead running from my jacket pocket into the crash helmet would escape his attention (a bit of a hazy area this). Of course, just like a bad dream, a few seconds later he paused, made a sweeping gesture in the general direction of the offending wire, raised an eyebrow and asked....

'Are you listening to the radio?'

'I am - but it's turned down very low. I can still hear the traffic. It's just to block out wind noise **. Sure, I wouldn't be able to have this conversation with you if it was too loud'. ***

'Well there's not really any law against it... but I wouldn't do it personally.'

Fair enough! Neither would I to be honest but its not every day your best mate presents Ian Dempsey's breakfast show.

<pause>

Well... if your best mate is Ian Dempsey....

Good point. Well made.

*...Motorbikes aren't allowed in bus lanes but most gardaí turn a blind eye to it.**..Wind whistling through a helmet at just 30mph will, eventually, damage your hearing.***.As you can probably tell. I was desperately trying to talk my way out of it.

Thursday 10 January 2008

My alarm clock beeps a little bit too chirpily for my liking. Were it to be personified, it would be a man in an Aquafresh advert - waking up bright eyed, bushy tailed and, somehow, already clean shaven. It is however, infinitely more pleasant than the traditional one I had when in university.

Impressed by its retro-coolness, I dived headfirst into an impulse buy without really considering the noise the tiny hammer and 2 little bells might generate. This matter was only given serious consideration the following morning when I finally came back down from the ceiling - it frightened the bejaysus out of me.

It spent the rest of its days, disfigured by two thick layers of surgical tape, strategically placed on the bells to deaden the sound. It succeeded in changing a shrill, bowel loosening BBBRRRRRIIIIIINNNNNNGGGGGG! to a series of rapid clicks (which were far more acceptable).

Anyway, the alarm begins beeping merrily at 6:30am. We slumber at the mercy of the snooze button for 30 minutes (ish) then get up. At 7:40 (ish) the close personal friend heads out the door work-bound but, as I don't need to leave until 8:45, I have another coffee and spend an hour or so listening to the radio or reading Sunday's papers.

One day, wondering what drivel the national broadcaster shows at such an hour, I flicked the TV on to find BláthnaidNíChofaigh interviewing somebody in a repeat of the previous days Afternoon Show. At one point she began a question with "Now, tell me this and tell me no more...". The interviewee answered the question... AND THEN SHE ASKED ANOTHER QUESTION!

As far as I am concerned, using the phrase "Tell me this and tell me no more" is only acceptable the following situations...

You inexplicably find yourself living in the land of Darby O'Gill and the little people.

You wish to sell an Arran jumper to some Irish-Americans.

YOU DON'T ACTUALLY INTEND TO ASK ANY MORE QUESTIONS

I don't like being lied to - RTÉ can expect a strongly worded letter..

Wednesday 9 January 2008

Apparently, under EU regulations, it is mandatory for all horses and donkeys (the four legged kind, not the "presenting-the-late-late-show" kind) to have a passport when travelling abroad (on short city breaks and the like)!

Friday 4 January 2008

In January 1986, I was 7 ¼ years old. My main hobbies at the time were running about and playing "the tripping up game" which, along with Robert and Emmet Smith, I co-created. My favourite TV programs involved mice of the Finger and Danger variety and, to my eternal shame, T.J. Hooker.

Although the close personal friend 4 often complains about my inability to perform a simple 60 second task without first spending 5 minutes deciding what CD to listen to, as a 7 year old I didn't have any great love for music. Mammy Ambassador preferred the dulcet tones of Uncle Gaybo while Daddy Ambassador liked listening to Don Williams singing about bread, anchors and best friends - all of which held little interest for me. The death of Phil Lynott on January 4th 1986 would, therefore, have gone unnoticed by a 7 ¼ year old ambassador.

Today is the 22nd anniversary of Lynott's passing. I had intended to mark the occasion by posting my thoughts on Lynott and the music of Thin Lizzy but alas, after roughly 2 hours of trying, I have decided that I lack the required literary skill and musical talent to do so. I fear that to even attempt as much would be a disservice to both subjects.

Wednesday 2 January 2008

Still not quiet up to speed after a long, lazy break so here, in summary form, is what I did on my holidays!

Santa brought a 5 day break in Venice for the 'close personal friend' - which she was absolutely delighted about. Unfortunately the element of surprise was completely blind sided when GW, a friend of mine, (who, in fairness, didn't realise it was meant to remain a secret - mainly because I hadn't thought to tell him) innocently enquired if she was looking forward to the trip. (Probably just as well really - history shows the cpfdoes not handle surprise well.)

If anybody knows any must see sights that don't make the regular guide books or any good places to sample the local fare or nightlife I would be delighted to hear them.

*****

Sister Ambassador and I, bought a Nintendo games console for Mammy and Daddy Ambassador. The coffee table, 3 cups, a glass and a digital camera lie in numerous pieces along the path of destruction it subsequently wreaked. Suffice to say the entire family have developed Wii-petitive strain injury.

*****

I turned down the chance to fill the support slot at a gig after Christmas and instead went on second in order to meet an old friend in town. If there is such a thing as "comic timing" then there must also be a corresponding entity known as "drunken-eejit timing" which an extremely inebriated gentleman in the audience possessed in spades. Although I doubt he had ever heard the material before, he managed to interject loudly at critical points in the first two stories. He wasn't so much of a heckler as a "shouter-of-inane-things". His drunken "quips" were too loud to ignore but to address them was to disrupt the flow of the material and ruin the payoff. Bit of a poor gig as a result but apart from a lack of experience, which may have allowed me to revive the fortunes of the set, I don't think it was down to my preparation or delivery so I am not too despondant.

*****

I spent 3 hours being flung around and around, turned upside down and tossed this way and that at the annual scanger-fest that is Fundeland. We left different shades of green and vowed never to go there again but I suspect the boy will want to go again next year and that we, twonks that we are, will relent.

*****

So that's it. How was your break - did you make any resolutions that might see the first light of March?

Contact the Embassy

About Me

I have longer eyelashes than any man (or camel) could ever possibly need and a head full of (mostly half baked) intentions which are destined to remain unfulfilled because I have neither the time, energy nor inclination to prioritise them... well maybe some other time.